Home Away From Home
by sidjack
Summary: For Mad Server. An adopted prompt of hers in which the boys show up at Bobby's. Dean is coming down with a horrible, horrible headcold Un-Betaed, all my mistakes, typos, spelling errors. Sorry I am so behind on everyone's kind reviews. I'm catching up.


Dean gasped as he surfaced from the icy spring fed pond, coughing and choking. Small angry waves slapped harshly at him as he swam against the current back to the bank and his brother. He pulled himself up next to Sam's unconscious form, collapsing on the hard ground, shivering in the steady wind. He fought to catch his breath. Shaking with chills he finally sat up, reaching over Sam's prone body and pulled his injured leg out of the frigid water. Eyes sweeping the area, Dean muttered the incantation a second time, not taking chances.

"All right, Sasquatch, let's go." He sat Sam up against him, pulling him up and over his shoulder. He staggered, found his balance and headed for the care, boots squelching and squishing with every step.

Sam had purposefully turned the music down at the first sign of Dean starting to nod off about six hours ago. His brother was beyond exhausted. The sound of the rain hitting the windows helped as the wipers adding to a hypnotic lullaby. The inside of the car was warm and cozy. After ten minutes that had been one sneeze after another, Sam glanced over, seeing Dean's head bob as he started to snore, sleeping sitting straight up. Sam reached over, one long arm gently pushing Dean back against the seat. Dean muttered, starting to rouse. Sam slid his hand down to Dean's left shoulder. Sam's throat was too bruised and sore to speak. He simply kept a gentle touch on Dean's arm, a rhythm Dean had used on him for years, guaranteed to send all good little Winchesters down for the count.

Dean frowned, his eyes still closed, mumbling "Not tired, Francis" in a scratchy voice and a jerking left forearm that slammed into Sam's wrist.

Sam bided his time and as another ten miles went by, he eased his hand back onto Dean's arm, rubbing up and down through the hoodie he had forced on his brother. Dean slowly slid down in the seat until his knees reached the dashboard. He watched as Dean's head drifting over his right shoulder, drooping down as he finally fell sound asleep against the window. Sam sighed, and then frowned as Dean sneezed twice splattering the window with germs and spewed snotlets, then settled back down.

Sam swung the Impala off the main road, traveling down the muddy track beside the tree line. He had been watching for the turn off for the last twenty minutes. He really hadn't thought that they were going to make it tonight. Sam checked his watch and adding a mental note that meds were due, he wearily continued until he finally pulled up in front of the Bobby's door.

It was no contest. Bobby was the oldest. He knew who was taking the last of the Tylenol. Dean sat in the bed next to Sam's holding the bottle, glaring at his little brother. Sam ignored Dean. He signed and signed to Bobby that Dean had been coughing, sneezing, running fevers and then crossed his arms, staring right back at his obnoxious older brother. Dean glared at the little tattletale, hoping he got a bad cramp in his fingers and then mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Fuck off, Sam" in a croaky voice. Dean narrowed his eyes, using his big brother glare which would have been much more threatening if not for the snot that suddenly dropped out his red clogged nose.

"Uh,uh, Awchhhnnnkss."

Sighing and pulling another tissue out of the box, Dean blew his nose; never taking his eye off the fever racked younger Winchester currently staring back. The stare down ended as Sam was suddenly hit with another set of chills that set his teeth chattering. Dean was shifting in the bed to get Sam more blankets when one look from Bobby nailed him under his own covers. Bobby quickly and efficiently pulled the other comforter from the closet, wrapping it around Sam, tucking the blankets close. He popped two large instant heat packs, placing one on Sam's chest, the other by his feet. He checked that bandage around Sam's swollen leg and ankle, no sign of infection, but the fever was to be expected. Sam smiled up at Bobby, the darkly mottled, purplish bruising around his throat almost comically coloring his fair skin although no one found it very funny.

Both men could hear the faint wheeze coming from the older Winchester as Dean sneezed repeatedly.

"Au-choo, Aw, Awww-chuttzzzss. Au-chooooo."

Bobby handing him the bottle of water from the nightstand as Dean caught his breath. "Drink it all, boy." Dean dropped the now empty bottle, falling exhaustedly back against the pillows Bobby had stacked behind him. Bobby frowned and sat on the side of the bed. Dean's face was flushed from the sneezing. Sam watched as Dean lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed as his face reddened at the calloused work hand that rested gently on his cheek just long enough to gauge how high his fever was. Dean sent a furtive, scathing glance and future promise of pain to his little brother. Dean set his mouth in a hard line and looked up at Bobby. His head was killing him and his throat felt like acid was coating it. "I'm not sick…" Dean started then choked on the words when he caught the_**not**__**taking**__**this argument**_ face and the raised eyebrows.

"Dean. Sam had a dose of Tylenol less than three hours ago while you were sleeping. He's fine for another five hours, time that lets me go to town for more meds."

Sam's eyes widened as he watched Bobby lean over Dean's head, one hand resting on the headboard of the bed. Bobby's voice dropped to a whisper, a lethal but loving whisper.

"Take the damn meds."

Dean bit his lip, his own eyes widening. He mumbled a "Sorry, Bobby," as he realized that Bobby probably hadn't had much sleep the last couple of nights, playing Uncle Nursemaid to the both of them. He sighed, coughing and sneezing, and then grabbed the Nyquil, swallowed the last of the bottle. He choked for a minute, gagging on the vile, hated taste, swallowing more phlegm than medication, but finally finished the bottle's last dose and threw it to the foot of the bed. He held his hand out for the pills and a new water bottle. Bobby covered a snort with his hand and smiled at the childish gesture. An echoed snort from his little brother had Dean flipping Sam the bird, coughing hard enough that Sam rubbed his own chest just listening.

"Bitch." Dean rolled over, away from Sam and Bobby, pulling the covers over his head. Bobby snorted out loud. He had been dealing with sick, crabby Winchester's almost all his life, and certainly almost all of theirs. He patted Dean's back at his own risk, and then turned towards the other bed. Sam was fighting it, but he was almost asleep, a faint fevered flush a sure sign his fever was still there. Bobby got up, straightened covers and turned off the lights, heading downstairs for coffee, whiskey and an inventory of meds before he hit the road.

* * *

Dean sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the blanketed mound of little brother faintly snoring, but finally asleep. He held his head in his left hand rubbing his forehead. Sam's coughing had given him back his headache. Dean swung his legs up under the covers, lying on his side to watch the lump in the other bed. He heard Bobby's soft sock covered approach, watching his friend shake his head, apparently not surprised to see Dean awake. With a shift of the pillows, Bobby helped Dean to his feet. He supported the staggering young man to the bathroom, parking Dean on the closed toilet seat. Bobby turned on the hot water in the shower and walked out without saying a word, shutting the door to the room behind him. Dean stared in exhausted confusion as the moisture started a tickle in his nose.

"Auh-choottss. Oh, God."

Dean stood in front of the bathroom mirror and wiped the steam away. His head and chest felt a little less congested, but the ache in his throat and the agony every time he swallowed hadn't lessened at all. He gargled the warm salt water Bobby had handed him, grimacing as this simple act made him hold onto the sink basin from the pain. He refused to puke when the nausea from all the drainage he was swallowing almost made him bring it all back up. After a couple of moments, he felt like he could let go without falling over. He heard Sam coughing in the other room. Dean sighed, resting his aching head in his hands. This was the ultimate suck fest. They had been passing this cold/pneumonia/plague back and forth for the last three months. Ever since that Zombie in Baton Rouge, one of them had been sick. It seemed that the fates had finally smiled on them though, cause now they BOTH had it. Dean shook his head. He stood, feeling the nausea receding. Brushing his teeth was a quick fix as he couldn't breathe with his mouth closed and his head so stopped up. He opened the bathroom door to see Bobby setting a pan next to his bed. Five minutes later, Dean was lying back on his bed, a warm yellow patch about the size of a map across his chest. He frowned, staring up at Bobby, a wounded look on his face.

"Well, ain't that sweet. Both the Winchester boys got the puppy dog eyes. Leave it. It's a mustard plaster to help get that crap out of your chest. Don't' touch it." Bobby left the room again. Dean sighed which started the coughing again. He covered his mouth, but saw Sam staring at him from across the room. Sam pulled his blankets up around his nose as Dean sighed again, coughing now from the stench and the itching in his chest.

"Aa, aah…Achoooooooooghgn!!"

Sam startled as Bobby walked back into the bathroom.

"Sam, get your ass back in bed. NOW!"

Sam stumbled the two steps back to bed as he bore weight on his swollen ankle. He groaned as he eased back down. He bit back a whimper as Bobby propped his ankle back up on the pillows, pulling Sam's blankets up and tucked them securely around him. Sam watched as Bobby pointed a finger directly in Sam's face, and then narrowed his eyes. Sam nodded his understanding. He wasn't moving.

Sam kept his eyes on Bobby as he approached Dean's bed. Dean blew his nose, and then partially rolled his eyes at the older man. Dean was lying back against the pillows, his sprained wrist in a sling. He resisted sighing as Bobby checked him over again. Dean knew the hunter was checking his pupils, looking for any indication of concussion. Apparently satisfied, Bobby turned, walking back to the table by the door and picked up a hot steaming mug. Dean pursed his lips and Sam could tell as he watched the two of them the battle was still on.

"Ok, back to the drawing board. I picked up more Aloe Vera, that should help with the burn from the Mustard plaster. Uh, sorry about that." Dean nodded absently as he stared anxiously at the steaming mug in Bobby's hands.

"The ice bath didn't help much except for keeping the swelling down on your wrist after you jumped out of the tub." Bobby rolled his eyes as Dean turned red and Sam cautiously bit back a slight smile.

"Idjit." Bobby muttered.

Bobby turned back towards Dean, holding out the steaming mug, vapors rising in purple and yellow swirls.

"Aachooo!" Sniffling, Dan looked at the cup then shook his head slightly. This was his second day of silence from laryngitis.

"Boy, this is not a debate."

Frowning, green fever murked eyes drifted up. Bobby could see the headache in the furrowed brow.

"Once you faint and go down in this house, your vote don't count."

Dean scowled up at Bobby, pink stained cheeks a stark contrast to the white cotton bedding.

'Didn't faint,' he carefully signed. 'Passed out.'

"Well, whatever you need to call it when your eyes roll up in your stubborn head and you almost take out the kitchen table."

'You caught me.' Dean's cheeks flushed brighter at the admission, his hands falling into his lap. Bobby stared down at him. Taking a step closer, he brushed his hand softly against Dean's reddened cheek. Bobby shook his head.

"Boy, we have got to get that fever down. You're cooking from the inside out." Bobby stepped closer, handing the half full mug to Dean. He picked up the digital thermometer, gently inserted in Dean's left ear. It beeped and Bobby pursed his lips. He glanced at the cup of steaming raspberries and herbs, then inclined his head towards his patient.

Dean leaned away from the mug he was holding in his one good hand, pain evident as he slowly shook his head.

"Okay, you don't have to pull a gun. I get it; you're getting a little wary of Uncle Bobby's secret home remedies. Fine. I'll take that. "

He removed the cup from Dean's hand and set it on the table.

"Screw the magic. It's back to basics for sick hunters."

'Hurts.' Dean motioned gently towards his throat and head. Bobby sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.

"One last trick in the bag, then it's the hospital if this don't work. Sam, stay off that ankle and in bed. Dean will be fine." He walked out of the room.

The boys heard him head down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dean sneezed and Sam stared at his brother who was trying to blow his nose with one hand and two not sprained fingers.

Dean must have dozed off. He felt the bed shift and opened his eyes. He widened hi s eyes in alarm as he turned his head, trying not to sneeze in Bobby's face. Sam was out for the count and didn't budge as Dean sneezed again and again.

"Hacheee, Hah-cheeeewtsz."

Dean moaned, dropping his head back against the pillow. He looked at Bobby, finger spelling one-handed.

Laughing, Bobby stared at the floor before catching the oldest hunting Winchester's eye.

"I think you'll like this a little more than a bullet in the head. Drink up."

Dean stared suspiciously at the almost full mug, and then sighed. He pulled the lukewarm cup to his lips and shuddering, drank it down. He opened his eyes wide, staring at Bobby as the empty cup was removed from Dean's hand. Bobby sat silently watching as Dean's eyes glazed over. The tenseness in his face relaxed and he was just leaning forward when Bobby caught him under the left arm and pressed him back into the pillows. Thirty seconds later, Dean was softly snoring, a congested melody. Bobby felt himself relax and gently pressed the thermometer back in Dean's ear. His fever had already dropped a notch. Smiling to himself, Bobby turned out the hall light and headed back downstairs. Filling a glass from the recipe on the table, not the one on the stove, he took a drink before heading back upstairs. Sometimes the simplest cures were the best. He wasn't worried now, but better to stay close. He poured the remaining Whiskey and lemonade in his glass, picked up his journal and headed upstairs.


End file.
